Best Flippantly Poems
You'll find it in the crimson eyes
of a throwaway photo somehow frozen in time.
When the past painted us like demons
with secret fury.
And you'll find it in the smell of a burning memory
like melting microfilm becoming enraged
(gifted with the freedom to deny
first appearances)
You'll find it in the cedar smoke
of Tyndale's earthen cage
roasting in a bale of hay for crimes unknown.
Where the fire of his message burned mighty
through a thousand hungry hearts that day
(where ancient ink once again
took a detour into youthful veins)
You'll find it in the velvet ash
of a (just one more) cigarette
being flippantly flicked into December sky
for reasons unknown.
Where yellowed fingernails bear witness
of freedom to live and freedom to die,
leaving not an inch of space to analyze;
for the fickle flames - much like life -
waits for no one.
You'll find it in the platinum tendrils
of a Colt 45, that so quickly took a life,
in the burning heat of an eternal second.
Where curled fingers and steady stare
makes it painfully aware
freedom is a pitiful beauty, ugly as sin,
and as right as rain
(ask the victims of Hiroshima --- they'll tell the same)
You'll find it in the vermilion sky
blazing brighter than passion pure;
stopping the world gears, of rat-race routine,
and turning a thousand rusty necks Heavenward
Where minds silently unhinge (for a moment)
And fear itself begins to cringe (for a moment)
When faced with childlike wonder
blind eyes will see.
A rejuvenating spark
this freedom can be.
And you'll find it the explosion of ecstasy
like a rose blooming in tenacious time-lapse.
You'll find it in the Cherokee midnight dance,
being warmed by the tongues of freedom personified.
Where Common Sense no longer applies,
for when freedom found his heart's desire,
you know it was a compromise.
Losing his mind, and losing his life,
in the process of a martyrdom
for all things beautiful and all things temporary,
in its earthly essence
... where freedom finds the fire,
you can't tell the difference.
Written March 23rd, 2016
For the Where The Freedom Finds the Fire Contest Hosted by Justin Bordner
We see ourselves unimpeded initially
Some are stricken with a view artificially
We are told by others very specifically
There is a ceiling so proceed timidly
We try in vain with no support futilely
As we age blazing the path dizzily
Sometimes we see the results dismally
Eventually we learn to climb skillfully
We began to achieve sufficiently
Eventually finding success brilliantly
Living life with dreams so vividly
Sadly, a haunting voice still speaks flippantly
Reminding us of the ceiling frigidly
We remain in the arena mistily
Each overcautious step taken judicially
We endure the voice shouting viciously
The battle to continue is done willfully
Faculty meeting. Formidably flippantly fortuitously fluffy and forgetful.
I began to write a little list of F words, because I was in the F word mood.
Frilly. Free-ha-ha. Feast. Forget-me-knots. Fallacy. Farming. Fastidious. Fun-filled.
What are you doing? A non-friend asked me. She had already broken my chain of counting when I was
Counting syllables, making me angry.
“I am writing F words,” I tell her. She looks at me with fanfare, farcically, fantastically.
I am relieved to begin anew. Now I am adding PH words, because they will go along well with my theme.
Phonetically, phenomena’s, phenol barbital, phosphate, phantom, philosophy
“You can always ask Caren.”
Uh-oh.
I look up.
Everyone is looking at me including the principal who is pleased as punch I’m taking such great notes.
I nod my head.
Feline, foamy. Form-fitting, fleshy, flesh-eating, fractions, fanfare, fishy, finished, foamy, Phillip, fixed, fixt.
Someone puts their hand on my paper.
I glare at them. “What are you doing?”
I put my finger to my lips to shush them.
Fluffy. Faerie, Fairy. Franchise. Farmer. Freshman. Frequent. Frequently.
Feminine. Farcical. Feisty. Fibber. Fibbing. French fries.
I look up.
Clock says 4:35. Time to go.
Totally un-socialized, I fly out the door, knowing the union is on my side.
"Babylon Candy"
“My god you
babble on”
he said.
the guy
thought he was
a giant,
as far as writers go.
She chirped,
“it’s all post humus
humour, from here on in
you know”.
Code-named,
“The Owl”,
she rolled her eyes
and hooted,
“You may as well play
with your marbles
before you lose them.”
“God only knows -
I Am.”
he replied,
“me, myself and I!
By the way,” he adds
quite flippantly,
“you think they could
choose better music...
and what is it
they’re putting
in drinks these days?
The Green Fairy?”
the response,
“Yes, The Green Fairy,
I hear he’s somewhere, here.
Lethal agent that one, excels
at camouflage.”
she elaborated further,
“The Lights don’t help.
You'd think they could
turn them down.”
Meanwhile,
back on the dance floor
of the U.a.U.
(Unicorns are Us)
Publisher’s Ball,
dressed to the 9’s
in 6 inch heels,
a silent observer,
unrevealed
sweet and sour Candy
stood sucking
on a high ball,
some long island iced T
watching on bemused,
waiting
for The Owl’s
next move…
in the bird’s
pocket, not very
well hidden, fully loaded
like a water diviner
perched
the inevitable
big gun
seeking out
The Resistance
burned,
a slow rising story.
flashforward
Hypodiegesis
Chekov’s gun -
"all guts"
the dossier read,
"and by God...
all glory."
Everything
for the
story.
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
Inside my Head
inside my head
deep within my heart,
like an old portrait tucked away
in a treasured locket,
safely kept
suspended in time…
memories of my first love
with his loving smile,
which like sunshine
could melt my heart;
his warm, gentle touch
his tender embrace
the taste of his passionate kisses,
the way he walked
with that slight swagger
so recognizable from afar;
his husky voice that whispered
shared secrets between us two,
as he filled every day with romance;
like soothing summer rain,
he’s been dwelling
inside my head
but wait a second -
that sucker’s been long gone,
married a new love and flippantly moved on;
so it’s time for me to finally let go
of all these pointless memories…
inside my head
09-13-2015
Contest: Trashed #2
Sponsor: Broken Wings
Placement: 5th
A Lack of Appreciation
By Elton Camp
It was on a cold 1940 September morn
That in a big, brick building I was born
I must admit, for I know it to be true,
My father never gave the payment due
Yet, to that place, a privilege it should be
To have born there one as illustrious as me
In later years, when in town, I drove by
Just to tell the place of my birth, “Hi”
But finally there came to be the awful day
I passed to find that they had torn it away
To flippantly demolish a historical place
Seems to me to be shameful & a disgrace
At the very least, how could they dare
Not to place a historical marker out there
“In this place was born a scrawny scamp
Who grew up to be known as Elton Camp
They stole my heart
When I was not look
Then they tortured it
And stamped all over it
Until it stopped beating
All love was to them
Was four little letters
That was thrown about
Almost flippantly
They came
They went
With absolutely no
Idea of what they took
From me
But i summoned courage
To love and to trust again
Just like Maya Angelou, still I Rise
And OH I realized that it is wise to whisper
The letters L.O.V.E to bring my heart
ALIVE.
Perhaps my old heart was lacking
But now the new one is humble& Happy
Looking back i can finally understand
That i was guided by a loving hand
Telling me "You won't break
Because you are learning how to bend"
Then i knew only LOVE can mend
I have a new heart
It is called COURAGE, the courage to Love
Eric Mbotiji... PEACE.
A closet hangs with ideas from Facebook posts past.
Tags still hang from pretty purchases,
nobody tagged in posts never made.
I sigh as I struggle in arms and poke through my big head.
The hourglass that has flippantly flipped
two hundred and eighty nine thousand times
has not left me it’s salacious shape like it has Michelle.
I wiggle out of wool’s tight hug.
A T-shirt and work worn jeans beacon me
like someone never unfriended.
I apply a layer of vanity,
rimming my eyes in black
a raccoon’s asset, so why not mine?
Red rouge ravishes cheeks that the sun should have.
I wince in weary wonderment as
Jan still looks like twenty Januarys ago.
There’s Tammy, posing perky and proud perfect.
She has a cousin I wished to kiss in kindergarten.
Lovely Lisa, whose husband I did try kissing in first grade.
Wendy is still wily and wild in a winsome way.
Betsy, best in beauty, my childhood cornerstone before chantilly.
Then, holding a two year old friend,
outside my three feet of comfort,
I tap the icon, and wonder momentarily,
why it’s called as such.
Realization hits like the sissy girl I used to be.
Its iconic, this legacy of vanity,
passed from polaroid to paranoid.
I don’t have to shake it and wait, it’s instantaneous.
This face is a fleeting fallacy.
So I lather away the layer of vanity
and return to myself.
I like her better,
and so might he,
so I post.
It’s a wait and see.
I have a strange malady
curiously effecting me
for I am very susceptible
to words of a variety
Words like cushlamachree
or hobbledehoy
give me such joy...
that my brain begins burbling
at a fantastic rate
things like bamboozle, bumfuzzle
blatteroon, and bombinate!
Bogged down in boondoggled
bedraggled, beware
I'm not making sense
and I really don't care!
Gushing galoot, galumph, galore
something inside crying
more, More, MORE!!!
I'm an insatiable verbavore!
Flippantly tripping through
flibbertigibbet, flumadiddle
filipendulous to the stupendous
sounds of mellifluous eutony
I am getting so tongue-tied here
my mouth is in mutiny!
But, oh my Dearie-
there's whigmaleerie
wifty, whimsical...
mugwump, moppet
words keep wheeling through my head
'though silly, I can't stop it!
For there's slubberdegullion
mollycoddle, hobgoblin
and gumption, too!
With all the splendiferous words about...
what's a logoleptic to do?
Pondering from perch the other day,
a thought grew as two conversed.
Addendum to what you have to say,
gives quarter to him, sacred cursed.
Utterances,hurtful, make others tense.
Apathetically dissuaded with "no offense".
In a tandem embraced scene
fearful men wage war with a word.
Cutting low, they boast and preen,
stating jest to cover what's slurred.
Wringing anguish, anger invoke.
Flippantly stating it "was just a joke".
Insecure ego's infesting pride,
spitting frozen nouns, verbs of acid.
Empty friendships, unwanted guide.
Destruction complete of spirit placid.
Pleading personality and decision.
Haughty pretense. Mocking derision.
-Angel Fatale-
/Locks and Clocks
We change locks
like we change clocks,
as flippantly as daylight dims,
as easily as days grow slim;
we try to bolt the sunlight out
with combinations masked in doubt
to shorter hours, as if we could
feel like the conqueror who would
shut out those close and dear to us
who used to be the ones we trust.
Clocks and locks are both the same
as tokens in some wordless game
to keep out fear and trusted waifs;
our meager souls no longer safe;
the locks have failed and so the trust
is gone and turned to flaking rust;
the moths have eaten through
those things we hoped to keep brand new;
again our dark night will descend
and we will once again offend.
Like locks and clocks we change our friends
(if ever we could make amends
for things we did with ignorance in place)
and do not receive the coveted embrace
from absent friends who come and go
as night to day diminishes its glow;
where hope runs true within,
returns to come around again
to lengthening days where suns shine bright,
and will dismiss the darkness of our night.
She stood languidly under neon light
Scant -clad bossom shine in erotic glory
Her tresses dance flippantly like reeds of the niger
Rag and ropes hung carelessly-gorgeously on curvy cliffs
Her recklessly red lip
Draw lustymen from the possessive warmth of their wary wives
As tiro-ed lashes coquetishly
Lead them to sheol.
There she is…
Hopping lightly from branches of
Each tree she rests on.
She is taking the day flippantly
Unworried, gently flipping thru’ the ruffling day
No matter what happens, even when things go
Beyond expectation of sweet bitterness
In dawn sorrow before dusk happiness
Rocketing up to the sky, and finally
Down again to the earth, gently, lightly.
(2013)
LIVING WHILE WE LIVE
“DEATH”
the infamous ‘d’ word our souls won’t discuss
as euphemisms abound in numerous array
he “passed away” or “returned home”
she “has gone to a better place” went “to be with her Lord”
“DENIAL”
in our attempts at personal projection we joke
reverently right or flippantly sway left
“he took a dirty nap” while “kicking the bucket”
she has “cashed in her chips” -- “bites the dust” has “croaked”
“DECLARE”
we are not prepared to live until prepared to die
death plays no favorites and overlooks no pride
there are no guarantees to what our life may bring
focus on what a moments precious time can achieve
bring joy to others in personal ways as we overflow
love unconditionally - live life to the full abundantly
receive both good and bad as they come from God’s
--LOVING ETERNAL HANDS--
© Kim van Breda—March 2014
I’m a bit of a sensualist.
First, let me emphasise emotional resonance,
there has to be an emotional base,
not just an appreciation of hotness.
Then, there’s a sense of longing and mystery—
that male unknowableness.
Don’t forget the hard strength of those rough male edges,
you know, the feeling that he’s kind of sculpted from
a marble and you just want to run your hands over.
And this jet-black hair, the curves and the spiky bits,
casual, careless, not fussy or particular,
and his warm firm and Implacable hands.
Oh, God. Gimmie some.
“Sensuality is connected to desire, ya?” I asked the room (Sunny and Lisa are there, studying).
“It sure is,” Sunny said, flippantly, “and you just need that hot boyfriend of yours to spank it out of you.”
“No,” I winced, shaking my head no, “that’s not true.”
“Ooo! I love this song” Lisa said, as ‘try’ by BETWEEN FRIENDS began to play on our Echos.
.
.
Songs for this:
this is what falling in love feels like by JVKE
golden hour by JVKE
.
.
Our cast
Sunny, (suitemate) 21, a (pre-med) molecular, cellular, and developmental biology major, is a cowgirl from Nebraska (seriously, she has a quarter horse and barrel races). She’s an outspoken fem-facing ladies-lady.
Lisa, (roommate) 21, my bff and a high society princess, who grew up in a 50th floor Central Park South high-rise. A (pre-med) molecular biophysics and biochemistry major.
Your author, a simple, multinational, upper-crust, trust-fund baby from Athens, Georgia who's also a molecular biophysics and biochemistry major (pre-med).